


The Countess and the Cabin-Boy

by wolfinthethorns



Series: Tall tales from the HMS Scathach [2]
Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: F/M, Gen, HMS Scathach, Ship Wrecks, back story, maybe a hint of a teenage crush, smol!childermass, the perils of the language barrier, well really teenage!childermass
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-11-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 14:48:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7980493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wolfinthethorns/pseuds/wolfinthethorns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Before Childermass was Childermass, he spent some time as a sailor; this is a story from then. </p><p>Black Johnny saves a girl from a shipwreck, and has to get them home to safety when they're washed up on a lonely North Yorkshire beach. To complicate matters, she does not speak English, and he does not speak her language. This may be the longest ten miles he's ever walked... </p><p>Featuring: Swashbuckling! Romance! Tragic Pasts (tm)! Magic! And a fearsome hedgehog...</p><p>(and, because there have been Concerns, an OFC who is not a self-insert and is a reasonably normal human being. no striking eyes or mysterious powers at all. we'll leave those for Childermass...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Late August, 1788_

It was dark as pitch when a great booming crack shook the windows of Whitby harbour. Johnny was out of his hammock and into his breeches and shoes before he was truly awake, dimly aware of a great clamour of men shouting and bells sounding and that something was terribly wrong. His captain's voice cut through the chaos - an order of all hands to long-boats - and he obeyed in a daze. The chill air above deck snapped him awake. Smoke was coming in from the sea, burning wood and pitch and gunpowder, and there, painfully bright against the black pre-dawn sky and blacker sea, was a great sail-ship ablaze. Johnny gawked, transfixed in horror as his crew-mates pushed past him, then a firm shove in the small of his back and a firmer order to get a move on from Captain Drummond brought him to his senses. He followed the captain, now with a sense of great urgency, taking oar as the long-boat put in. As they pushed off towards the stricken vessel, the captain gave them what little news he had: a passenger ship had come limping towards the harbour, listing as though her hull was breached, when the explosion had come; it was thought she must have been armed and that the powder had taken a spark. No one knew what numbers were on board, only that their time was running out, and that there may yet be more explosions.

 

The crew rowed with all their might, hard against the incoming tide. Small boats swarmed the sea, a rescue flotilla from the merchant crews and fishermen and smugglers who called Whitby harbour their home. Another boat from their ship, the Scáthach, rode alongside them, helmed by First-Mate Paine, but in the gloom it was impossible to say who the other crews were. The air grew thick with smoke as they approached the wreck, it choked their lungs and stung their eyes as they fished survivors who had leapt, or fallen from the sinking ship out of the sea. They worked quickly, hauling them aboard as they gasped for breath and trembled with fear and cold. When the boat was unable to take any more, they turned, racing for shore. No sooner had their sodden, terrified cargo been unloaded when the race began again, back out into the black sea, the dawn's thin light beginning to crack along the landward horizon behind them. The pace was brutal. Johnny's arms and thighs screamed with exertion as he fought to keep in time with the older, stronger men. Sweat plastered his hair to his face and his shirt to his back. But he did not falter - each moment lost was a life ended by sea or by flame. This time they approached closer to the ship, taking passengers directly from the rope ladders thrown down from the deck. The heat came in waves here, the groaning timber of the ship's death-throws was deafening. Time was of the essence, every second they stayed close to the ship, the greater the chance it would take them with it. But despite the smoke and the chaos and the noise, something caught Johnny's attention: a woman on Paine's boat along side them, wailing and pointing back to the ship, restrained by a man he did not recognise. He could not make out what she was saying, but following her gestures he saw the cause of her distress. A girl, still aboard deck, and still alive. And as Captain Drummond, oblivious to the lone survivor, gave the order to push away, Johnny made a decision. And he took three great long strides to the prow of the boat before she turned. And he jumped for the ladder, the captain's demand to know where the hell he was going bouncing off his back.

 

As he mounted the deck, hell was an apt comparison. Here the heat slammed into him like a solid wall, knocking the air out of him. Stray hairs curled and singed without the fire needing to come close to him, so intense it was. The smoke, heavy and noxious, became a living thing here, coiling around him, strangling him, whipping his eyes. It hurt to breath. It hurt to see. For a second he considered conceding defeat, but then, over the wild, diabolic roar of the inferno he heard her scream. Screwing up all his courage, he ran to her. And what a tableau when he found her! A beauty fair, her white night-dress and long, dark hair all a-tangle in the rigging: a sacrificial maiden, chained in the underworld, waiting to be devoured by the Beast or rescued by our young hero! Perhaps if our Johnny had been more romantically minded, this allegory might have caused him to waste precious time making declarations of fate and love, or been dissuaded all together, for such quests are rarely without significant cost. Fortunately for the young lady, he was even at the tender age of sixteen of an entirely practical set, and more concerned with making swift work of the entangling ropes than contemplating poetical imagery. The captured girl had, at his approach, been screaming at him, or to him, in some language he did not understand; as he drew his knife she grew still and silent, wide eyed as terror heaped on terror. He spoke calmly to her, telling her not to be afraid and that he was there to help, but he did not know if she comprehend or even could hear him over the riot that surrounded them. She flinched as he began to hack at the ropes that caught her night-dress, but, realising he was there to aid not murder her, as the ropes fell away she began to babble once more in that queer, harsh language. Johnny ignored her, for he had begun to sense that the ship was starting to move, listing away from the shore and the rescue boats - they were running out of time. He freed her clothing with little effort, for it was held by only a few ropes, but alas! her hair was a different matter. To slice through each rope that held it would have taken hours. He looked her in the eye, placed his hand on his heart and gave a little bow, and said, I'm sorry, and before she could protest gripped his fist about as much of her hair as he could manage, and cut it short. The girl let out a piercing shriek. As if in answer, the dying ship let out a great, tortured howl and tipped sharply to it's side, throwing them to the deck. The knife was jolted out of Johnny's hand and went skittering down and away into the sea. He cursed sharply; he did not care if she understood. Their exit to safety was now up hill. Dragging himself, and her, to their feet, he took her hand and they began to climb. From above there was a deep, ominous moan. A blazing mast came toppling down, blocking their path. The girl was screaming again. Johnny looked about, behind them was their only means of escape: a mostly clear path down to the far edge of the deck, a slope on which they may pick up some speed, and a swinging rope that, god help him, might propel them a good distance from the collapsing vessel. No time, or means, to explain, he grabbed her about the waist and ran. The rope came into reach, and, pulling her into an embrace he jumped, and face-to-face they swung out over the cold, dark waves.

 

Time moves differently under water. For a heartbeat, maybe two, they sank. Yet it felt like an eternity that Johnny gazed the at her face, white and ghostly as the reflection of the moon, the light of of the inferno and the rising sun turning the sea around them bloody-red, bubbles whirling around them like a snowstorm. A bright, hot hell replaced by a frozen, dark purgatory. A heartbeat. A decision to live. Still holding her, he kicked against the water. They surfaced, gasping. Turning them both onto their backs, and pulling her tightly to his chest, he pushed away from the wreck, hoping for shore, her sharp little nails digging through his shirt into his side.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With apologies to [Seth Lakeman](https://youtu.be/GyQv5yPIUL4)


	2. Chapter 2

Bloody-red greeted Johnny as consciousness returned to him, warm sunlight through closed eyelids. Someone was shouting in him in a queer language that involved too many g's and v's and j's. She sounded angry. Johnny gave his fingers and toes an experimental flex; he he had the same number of limbs he'd left the ship with. He had lost his left shoe. He was lying on sand. He ached everywhere. Everything tasted of salt. She was still shouting at him. He wished she'd stop. He sat up painfully, snapping "What?" in the direction of the voice, and began coughing violently as his lungs ejected the last of the water from themselves. The voice stopped abruptly. As he opened his eyes and his vision cleared, the recollection of recent past events flooded back. His charge, sullen and fearful, sat huddled on a rock a few feet from him, hugging her knees that were drawn up to her chest. A large graze darkened her pale cheek. He rubbed the back of his head, wincing at the lump he found forming there. "Sorry", he said to her, and began to lurch to his feet, gasping as a sharp, aching pain presented itself down his right thigh. The girl started at his movement, cowering back and making to scurry away. Johnny sighed and knelt back down (his thigh complained bitterly but he paid it no mind), and spreading his hands palm down in a gesture of reconciliation, tried his best to speak calmly to her:

"Hush, hush now please. I mean you no harm. By book and bird, I promise, I mean you no harm".

Meeting her large, dark eyes with his own, he offered a smile. She did not return it, but seemed to compose herself somewhat, and started talking at him again. Her tone still sounded angry, but her face showed no such emotion. He shook his head,

"Please, I don't know what you are saying. Do you speak English at all, miss?"

She spoke again, slowly, enunciating each word carefully as though to an elderly relative who is hard of hearing, <<A ty govorish' po russki? Ya ne govoryu po angliyski.>>

Johnny sat dumb. He may not have understood her words, _per se_ , but he understood the gist of them well enough. They were at an impasse. They continued to gaze at each other, unsure of how to proceed for what felt like a very long time, until eventually Johnny offered, slowly and carefully for he knew his accent was bad, <<Parlez-vous français?>>

At last a smile spread across her weary face, a broad grin of relief, <<Yes, yes!>> she cried, her French as thickly accented as his <<I speak a little French!>>

"Grand," he said as much to himself as anyone, <<My name is Johnny>>. He held out a hand to shake, she did not take it. Instead, she drew herself up and said,

<<My name is Ekaterina Vladimirnova Boltunovskya, Grafinya K--,>> and held out her own hand, palm down and fingers gently curled, clearly not to meant be shaken. The whole effect of her imperious tone and posture, contrasted with her grubby, tattered night-dress, and crudely-hacked hair that now stuck out like that of a scare-crow was so comical that Johnny could not help but laugh. She scowled at him, and sniffed proudly, dropping her hand into her lap.

<<Well, Ekaterina, we...>> he began, standing up as he did, but she cut him off with a hiss,

<<Ekaterina _Vladimirnova_ , and you may address me as Your High Well-Born.>>

<<Of course, _your high well-born_ ,>> said Johnny with a lop-sided smirk and an ironical bow, <<we must leave here. It is a long way home. Shall we go?>>

Ekaterina Vladimirnova looked horrified at the suggestion, <<No, no, no! Certainly not! My father will be searching for me. He will find me. I will stay here.>> She was resolute.

Not knowing what else to do, Johnny simply shrugged, said <<Suit yourself>>, kicked his remaining, useless shoe into the sea, discarded his equally useless stockings, and stomped off up the beach, leaving her sat like a mermaid on her rock.

 

Where was home, anyway, he thought, as he trudged towards where the cliff dipped lower. The dip in the cliff was a scarce twelve feet, and of a relatively shallow angle, an easy scramble for one accustomed to rigging. At the top, he cast about trying to get his bearings. The sun was not yet at it's zenith (he felt safe to assume it was still morning), placing it in the South East, and the sea was to the East (he felt safe to assume this was not the Lowlands). He followed the rise of the cliff northwards; from it's crest, the Yorkshire coast swept away before him. In the distance, a great bite appeared to have been taken out of it, and this he recognised as Robin Hood's Bay. They were a long way from home; by his reckoning, Whitby was some ten or twelve miles away. He felt very fatigued all of a sudden, and his leg hurt terribly. He sat down miserably on a boulder and finally took time to examine the wound. His breeches were ripped up the outside of his right leg, and below the rip a long cut ran from his knee to mid thigh. It was not deep, at least - the blood was dried and crusted - but it was ragged, and surrounded by bruises. He groaned out loud, startling a cloud of small birds out of the heather. To take stock, he though, he had at least a day's walk, on an injured leg, with some mardy _high well-born_ tart who was unlikely to take advise from someone as low and poorly-born as himself, especially with his arse hanging out. Bloody _capital_. He looked over the side of the cliff. Ekaterina Vladimirnova was still sat there, starkly black and white against the browns and greens of the shore. Let her sit there, he thought bitterly, let her bloody sit there and wait for her bloody father to find her god-forsaken salt-bleached bones for all he cared. But no, no that would not do. He was not going to go through all the hassle of rescuing her from the wreck only for the daft bint to go and die of exposure. And more to the point, if he returned alive to Whitby, and she did not, there'd be no end of trouble. With a resigned sigh, he set off back to the beach.

 

Descending the cliff, Johnny noted two things that in his earlier pique he had not seen before. Firstly, that a small fresh-water burn splashed over the edge and disappeared into the rocks, and secondly, that hidden upon a grassy ledge, there was a sea-bird's nest with two eggs in it. By all accounts it was an odd time of year for birds to be laying, but from the scatter of feathers and lime about the nest, they appeared to be fresh. Both these facts gave Johnny some cheer, as together (albeit in a small and temporary way) they reduced the immediate danger of death by exposure. He retrieved the eggs with ease and, wrapping them in an untucked corner of his shirt, made a clumsy, one-handed, half-climb half controlled-slide to the foot of the cliff.

 

As far as he could tell, Ekaterina Vladimirnova had not moved a muscle since his sortie. She did not look at him as he approached, but remained statue-still staring out to sea.

<<Has your father arrived?>> Johnny enquired nonchalantly, dropping to sit like a tailor on the sand next to her. She did not respond, only a narrowing of her eyes and a pursing of her lips communicated her displeasure. <<I believe I know where we are,>> he continued, paying her ire no heed, <<we are about ten miles from Whitby. If we start to walk now, we can by there by nightfall, I think.>> Steadfastly, she continued to ignore him. He held up an egg, <<Breakfast?>> This engaged Ekaterina Vladimirnova's attention.

<<Oh! Breakfast! Of course! We can bake us a souffle with this oven and pan we do not have! Breakfast indeed. Are you mad?>>

It took Johnny a great force of will not to laugh at this outburst. Instead, he blinked at her slowly in a manner he hoped conveyed incredulity rather than barely stifled hilarity, and said <<No... like this,>> and proceeded to demonstrate how one ate an egg fresh out of its shell. Now it was Ekaterina Vladimirnova's turn to be incredulous,

<<Raw?>> she said.

<<Raw,>> he confirmed, and offered an egg. Ekaterina Vladimirnova considered the prospect for a moment, muttered something that Johnny was not sure if it was a prayer or a curse under her breath, took the egg, and swallowed the contents in one.

<<That,>> she said with a pained expression <<was not so bad as I had thought. But I cannot say I like it a great deal.>> She smiled weakly, <<And it is better than nothing. Thank you, Johnny.>>

 

They waited. The sun rose higher, and so, little by little did the tide. At length, Ekaterina Vladimirnova broke the silence, <<I'm thirsty>>

<<There is a stream at the top over there,>> said Johnny, pointing to where he had made his earlier ascent.

She shook her head, <<Do not try to trick me. I will not leave here.>>

Johnny sighed, <<I think we must leave here. Look,>> he pointed to the cliff, where a murky line on the rocks marked the high tides reach, <<the water comes up and... um... It is too dangerous. We must go soon.>>

Ekaterina Vladimirnova looked at the cliff, and at the sea, and at the cliff once more. She looked at her hands for a long while, murmuring in Russian to herself. She gave a deep sigh, stood up, and then looked at Johnny with a sense of resolve, <<Very well. Let's go.>>

 

The cliff presented another challenge for our young adventurers, for while Johnny was accustomed to climbing about like a monkey, the Grafinya was very much not. Try as she might, she could not get a purchase upon the rocks, and would manage to ascend a foot or two before slithering back down. In the end, Johnny was obliged to carry her upon his back, after much protestation on her behalf. As he lay prostrate and panting like a dog at the head of the cliff, he heard Ekaterina Vladimirnova gasp with surprise. She stood, hands over her mouth and wide-eyed with delight, saying <<It is so very beautiful>>. It is a sad and curious thing that when one is accustomed to one's surroundings, one very easily becomes inured against their beauty, and now, seeing the North Yorkshire coastline through the eyes of a stranger, Johnny found himself taken aback by the fact that yes, it was indeed very beautiful. The moors were a riot of bright yellow gorse and purple heather and emerald bracken, rising through the olive-green grass, studded here and there with venerable stones, and black thorn bushes twisted into unearthly shapes by the wind. To their right, the wine-dark, foam-flecked sea; to their left, the great, jagged purple hills. The clear, blue dome of the sky spread above them, filled with the song of a distant, invisible sky-lark. Restored by this glory, they drank their fill from the burn, and set upon their way.

 

One might be mistaken that,  on a warm day with such idyllic surroundings, two healthy young people would make short work of the distance back to the safe haven of Whitby, but sadly this was not to be. There were no paths, as such, and furthermore they had no water, no food, and no shoes. Sporadically a desire-path made by wandering animals made their way a little easier, but then sure enough the path would end abruptly in a briar patch or a steep drop to the sea. The sun grew higher, the day grew warmer, their way was slow and footsore. And yet, Johnny noted with a curious mix of surprize and pride, Ekaterina Vladimirnova did not once complain. In truth, she said very little for the first few miles, at first in awe at the majesty of her surroundings, then in deep concentration on putting one foot in front of the other, and at last in silent contemplation. This suited Johnny well, for he was not sure what he might converse about with a young lady such as her. He doubted she would be much interested in the life of a cabin boy, and while Captain Drummond and Paine had taken the trouble to educate him as best they could, he felt it unlikely the subjects he could discuss were particularly fashionable. At times he would begin to hum some sea-shanty or another, but then grew worried that the lyrics were far from suitable for his companion's ears, before remembering she would not comprehend them anyway. Still, it felt somehow inappropriate, and he grew quiet again.

 

It was early afternoon, that part of the day hotter yet than noon, when Ekaterina Vladimirnova stumbled, tumbling to her knees with a soft, surprized gasp. She had fallen before on their long march, certainly, but this time she did not right herself immediately. Johnny, who had been walking ahead, pulled up short and dashed back to her.

<<Are you hurt, Miss?>>, he asked, dropping to kneel besider her.

She shook her head, slowly, <<No, no, I am well. I am well. A moment, please?>>

<<We should rest soon, anyway,>> he said, surveying their surroundings. Now he had stopped, the pain from his leg had begun to imping on his consciousness once more.

She gave him a fierce, proud look, <<I am not fatigued, I only...>>

He waved her protestations away with an easy smile, <<Perhaps not, but I am. See there?>> he pointed inland to where the dark line of a stream cut it's way through the heather, a stand of hazel scrub beside it, <<There is water. Will you rest with me?>> and he offered her his hand.

Ekaterina Vladimirnova huffed a weary laugh, <<Very well. For your sake.>> Taking his hand, they levered each other to their feet, and, still leaning on each other's arm, limped towards the hazel stand.

 

The stream was clear and fresh, and the trees offered up a late crop of cob-nuts provided a meagre, but welcome meal, one Ekaterina Vladimirnova declared she liked a great deal more than the previous offerings. As they sat in the shade of the trees, cracking the soft-shelled nuts with their teeth, Ekaterina Vladimirnova enquired as to who Robin Hood was (for Johnny had described the landmark ahead to her) and why did he have a bay. And so Johnny told her the story of that legendary outlaw (although he did not know why he held claim to that particular bit of coastline), of his deeds and adventures, and how he was held in great esteem by the English for stealing from the rich to give to the poor. The notion of making an outlawed robber into a folk-hero amused Ekaterina Vladimirnova no end. What a queer race the English were! In her country, the greatest heroes were the Three Bogatirs, noble warriors who protected Russia with their strength, wit, and courage. Not to be out-done, Johnny countered with the greatest of English heroes, the Raven King, who protected England not only with strength, wit, and courage, but also magic and the control of a fairy army. This shocked the Grafinya even moreso, for while the English fairies that you or I are well acquainted with are wicked, capricious creatures, they are as good as angels and gentle as lambs compared to the horrors that lurk within the vast, dark forests of Ekaterina Vladimirnova's homeland. English fairies may be content to abscond with Christians, but Russian ones are principally interested in eating them. To consort with, let alone control such beings, she said, would take such dark magic that the devil himself would pale, and she told Johnny of their queen, Baba Yaga, and her house that moved about on chicken legs. As they set off once more, it seemed that conversation came more freely, as much as language would allow. Johnny told Ekaterina Vladimirnova of his adventures aboard the Scáthach (which, contrary to his assumptions she was thrilled to hear), and she told him of her life in court (which bored her no end).

 

Soon the landscape rose, and curved inwards to form the bay that marked their half-way point home, and here, to Ekaterina Vladimirnova's surprize, Johnny began to track inland.

<<Wait!>> she cried after him, <<why are we leaving the cliffs?>> and before he could respond, she caught sight of the cluster of small dwellings that nestled amongst the crags, and cried <<no, wait! I see a village! We are saved! We can go there and send for help, we need not keep walking.>>

Johnny stopped to wait for her, but shook his head, <<We cannot go there. I am sorry for it. But... it is not safe. The village is full of thieves. They are bad people.>>

<<I thought you were bad people>> said Ekaterina Vladimirnova, raising an ironical eyebrow.

The remark stung. Did she think so little of him despite all he had done? Could she see so plainly in his dark, sharp features that, were it not for Captain Drummond's good will, the the den of smugglers that was Robin Hood's Bay were, whether he wished it or not, his people, his birthright? Anger sparked in Johnny's chest; how dare she presume? Yet as swiftly as it has begun, his the fire of his hurt pride was quenched with bitter sorrow; she was entirely correct in her estimation, was she not? He longed to defend himself, though he knew not why he suddenly desired her esteem. But even if he had had the words in English, he was wholly at a loss in French, and he was forced to settle for a flat, downcast, "They are worse." As he turned to leave, her hand caught his,

<<I joked>> she said, sadly <<I meant the English, you know, with your robber heroes, not you.>> She squeezed his hand. He could not meet her eye, only look at her delicate, pale hand in his long-fingered, brown one as she continued her speech, <<You have been kind and patient with me, and I have been rude and thoughtless. And I am sorry for it. I do not think you are bad, Johnny.>> Johnny began to mutter some protestation that she had no need to apologise, but she stopt him, <<And I should like to be your friend>>

At this declaration, Johnny started, <<Really?>>

<<Really.>>

He met her look with an ironical smile, <<Your father will be unhappy.>>

Ekaterina Vladimirnova waved this concern away like a bothersome fly, <<That is a thought for later.>>

Johnny laughed, and bowed, <<Very well, then. If that is what you wish, it would be my honour, Ekaterina Vladimirnova.>>

She swatted his shoulder, but now she smiled at his impudence. <<You may call me Kasha, if you would like,>> she added a little shyly. Johnny repeated the name back to her, it's shape strange and foreign in his mouth, but welcome in it's meaning. <<What should I call you?>> she asked, <<now we are to speak informally to each other?>>

This took Johnny aback somewhat. Deepening familiarity had not been forefront on his mind when he had made his introductions, and he found himself with no where to go. He shrugged, <<Erm... Johnny, I suppose. That is the only name I have. Well, John, but that is more...>>

Kasha laughed and shook her head in mock despair, <<English manners are very strange indeed!>>

<<Ah, no, English manners are very simple.>> Johnny retorted with a grin,  <<it is just that I do not have any.>>

 

Beyond Robin Hood's Bay, the land rose gently into wooded hills. Here, at last, the came across well-worn paths, maintained by the coppicers and charcoal-burners and hunters who depend upon the English wood for their livelihood. Though they were greatly fatigued, this ease of movement, and the soothing shade of the great oaks and ashes and elms cheered our travellers. A childlike glee overtook them (for who does not feel as a child when in the woods?), chasing each other hither and thither, recreating the games of their infancy. Kasha took great joy in teaching Johnny to imitate the call of an owl, a trick taught to her by a nurse and _strictly forbidden_ at court. As they crossed a glade of sweet-scented linden trees, a sense of familiarity overcame Johnny. He knew these woods. He knew, in a more concrete sense than before, where they were. This, sadly, was as much a concern as a comfort, for it brought with it a sinking realisation that the were not going make their triumphant return to Whitby before dark. Dusk was already beginning to fall beneath the trees, and with it came the damp chill that heralded the end of summer. Kasha was undoubtedly flagging; in the low light, she seemed paler than before, her features strained despite her brave smiles. He himself was exhausted. They needed food, and they needed shelter if they were to survive the night. In weary desperation, he made a silent prayer, please, let me find something, to no-one in particular. In the distance, a raven cawed. Please? I'll return the favour, thought Johnny, a vague sense of a dark presence at the back of his mind, something primal, something he should have feared but yet... He started as in a sudden flurry of wings and song, a great cloud of starlings erupted from a tree just ahead of them. An apple tree, heavy with fruit. And just beyond it, on the edge of the wood, a tumbledown cottage.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Dusk crept like a stalking animal into the tumbledown cottage on the edge of the woods. Through the empty, glassless windows, the lamps down in Whitby started to twinkle, but their fragile light could not hold back the gloom within. Hunched over a small pile of dry grass and punkwood in the cracked remains of the hearth, Johnny let out a deep sigh of frustration. Try as he might, he could not get a fire lit, and it was becoming awfully hard to see what he was doing. He knew the form of creating a flame without the use of a flint and steel, certainly, but had little experience of the practice, and all he seemed to be achieving was rubbing his palms to blisters. Kasha sat patiently nearby, upon the remains of what had been the door, dragged from it's frame as a makeshift bed by some prior visitor, regarding his work with a weary curiosity. She had been unhappy to stop their journey, but grudgingly accepting of the practicalities of their situation, and the promise of food and warmth had persuaded her of the logic of Johnny's proposition of resting in the cottage for the night. The former amenity had been easily forthcoming, for the apples on the tree by the cottage were unseasonably ripe. The latter, however, was proving more of a challenge than Johnny could face in his fatigued state. His eyes prickled, his chest felt tight, but he held it in; Kasha needed him to remain composed now. Cracking his sore knuckles, he resolved to make on final attempt before conceding defeat. As he began to spin the dry twig between his palms against the dry wood, a piece of doggerel in which John Uskglass begs fire from the sunset on which to cook his dinner presented itself unbidden in his mind. Although little more than a child's skipping rhyme, as he murmured it to himself, he found it had a most convenient rhythm for maintaining the friction needed to produce an ember. Smoke began to rise from the wood, and, as he pronounced the final syllables of the rhyme, a bright spark hopped from the notch in the wood onto the grass, which began to smoulder and glow. With a gasp of relief, Johnny carefully fed the glow with more grass and punkwood, and soon a cheerful campfire blazed in the hearth. Kasha cried Bravo! and clapped and threw her arms about him as he sat down heavily and exhausted beside her on the door. For a time, they simply sat in companionable silence, munching upon the unseasonable apples. Had Johnny had more of his wits about him, perhaps he might have thought that the manner in which Kasha leant against him, her head resting upon his shoulder, was improper, but at that moment he could only be glad for the shared warmth, and for being alive.

 

<<Thank you, for saving my life. I had not said it before.>>

Johnny had been dozing when Kasha spoke, and came to with a bewildered "Pardon?"

<<I said, thank you for saving my life.>>

<<Oh, um... It's nothing?>> he ventured.

Kasha laughed, and shook her head, which had the effect of nuzzling her face against his shoulder. <<You are strange,>> she said.

<<I am very tired, and bad at French, and I do not know what to say,>> he replied, letting his cheek rest upon the crown of her head, <<and anyway, you like strange.>>

She moved to look up at him, something wondering in her large, dark eyes, <<Yes,>> she said, <<perhaps I do,>> and Johnny was all of a sudden aware of how close they were, their foreheads rested together now, her warm breath upon his skin. Time felt as if it had stopt. Perhaps he should say something, make some overture to the gesture of affection that now felt inevitable.

 

In the portentous silence, the sound of movement from the back of the cottage came shatteringly loud. Kasha started, knocking their heads together, crying <<What was that?>>

Johnny groaned, rubbing his sore forehead, <<An animal,>> he winced.

<<A dangerous one?>> she asked, eyes wide and frightened.

Johnny sighed. Had Kasha been an English girl, perhaps he might have found this display of nervousness frustrating, but having established what horrors lurked within the Russian woods (not least of all, bears), he could forgive her this, and, reassuring her, rose to investigate the disturbance.

 

The back rooms of the cottage were largely demolished. The apple tree, though it could not have been more than half a decade old, had sprouted in such a way that the trunk seemed to grow out of the wood-side wall, its roots undermining the foundations of the structure, causing it to buckle and warp. Its support gone, the rotted roof had collapsed in, and now the bright full moon lit the ruin as bright as a gas-lamp. As he had imagined, Johnny found nothing untoward lurking in wait. But as he turned to go back, a ray of the moon's cold light happened to illuminate what had been the pantry, and what Johnny saw caused his heart to sink. In clumsy script upon the pantry wall, at a child's hight, was scrawled JOHHNY... MarY... bill... HeSTeR... joAn... A great knot formed in Johnny's throat, threatening to choke him as memories of the last time he had been in that cottage flooded back. He snatched up a stick, and began to scrub at the wall, frantically trying to erase the evidence, burning with shame lest Kasha, somehow, connect these child-vagabonds with himself. As the words faded into a grubby smudge, his panic subsided, but the ache in his chest did not. Something furry and sharp collided softly with his bare ankle. He looked down, with a sense of dazed surprize - the hedgepig, equally surprized, drew itself into a tight conker-ball.

 

Johnny returned triumphantly to the fireside, <<I have found your dangerous animal!>> he exclaimed to Kasha. She looked at him quizzically. <<It's a... um...>> his French failed him, "urchin", he added with a shrug, and presented her with the creature he held carefully in cupped hands.

<<Oh!>> she cried delighted, <<a... um...>>, she frowned, as her French also proved inadequate, <<yezh>>

At this juncture, the hedgepig, or urchin, or yezh, curious as to all the names it was being called, cautiously poked its snout out from its spines. Kasha greeted it with a cheery <<Good evening!>>, and this proved to much for the little creature as it curled itself up tight once more. Feeling they had tormented it enough, Johnny took the beast outside, gently setting it down with a soft "Go on, bugger off, Greymalkin." Sensing its release, the hedgepig unfurled itself, lifted up its skirts, and took off into the darkness.

 

The fire was burning low when he returned, and they agreed they should, at last, attempt to sleep. Johnny conceded the door to Kasha - though it was not soft, it would at least provide some insulation against the cold flags - while he arranged himself on the other side of the hearth. Or, at least, so he tried to. No sooner had he made his intent clear than Kasha exclaimed <<Oh! You will be cold!>>.

Johnny shrugged.

<<I cannot let you save my life then die of cold,>> she said, firmly, <<come, lie next to me.>>

Johnny wrestled with his conscience. She had a fair point, but the moments before the hedgepig's interruption sat heavy on his mind. <<What will people think?>> he asked.

<<Nothing, if we do not tell them.>>

This was two fair points in favour of Kasha's proposition, and Johnny was too tired to argue with her or himself. He rose to join her on the makeshift bed, and, curled around each other like babes in the wood, they were soon asleep.

 

He dreamt of his mother that night. He dreamt of dark, curling hair, and dark, callused hands. He dreamt of apples, and ravens, and songs in strange languages.  He dreamt of being lost in a forest of coats, and being found, and hiding in her skirts. He dreamt of men shouting, and running, and rough hands that were not his mothers. He dreamt of jeering crowds and swinging feet. He awoke with a heavy heart and a wet face.

 

He awoke cold, and desperately needing to make water. Untangling himself carefully from Kasha so as not to wake her, Johnny limped from the cottage to find a convenient bush. His leg hurt dreadfully now, and it was a struggle to stand. Leaning against a tree to relieve himself, he gazed absently at the horizon, where dawn was beginning to throw a thin, watery light through the sea-mist. It seemed a melancholy sight to him, a grey pall sapping the life from moors that had seemed so vibrant yesterday, the chill mist full of ghosts that reached into the heart and stole away all warmth. An embarrassed squeak behind him broke his reverie and he scrabbled to regain his modesty. Kasha loitered in the doorway, her gaze pointedly averted; she gestured vaguely in the direction of the town, <<Um... shall we go, then?>>

 

Johnny leant heavily on his friend as they walked. He did not wish to, and resented his dependency, but his injury prevented him from walking unaided for any length of time and without Kasha's help he would not make it back to town. The pair did not speak much, and through the quiet and the pain and the melancholy landscape, Johnny could not escape the sour mood that had plagued him since waking. Each aching step seemed a step closer to a future that felt vastly unfair: when they returned, Kasha would be reunited with her father and her mother, and would return to her gilded life in court, and she would forget him; he would be reunited with his crew, and return to his hard and dangerous life aboard ship, and would, perforce, forget about her too. And it was not so much this disparity of situation that rankled, nor their inevitable separation, but the stark fact that whatever his hopes or aspirations, it would never be possible for him to even entertain the notion of retaining her society, let alone companionship. Oh, he did not pretend he was in love with her, for he had known her less than two days and they did not even speak the same language, but perhaps he might have liked to have found out if he _might_. But no, it could not be: he could better his French, learn Latin or Greek or Russian even, read many great books, master swordsmanship or any other gentlemanly pursuit, perhaps even make his fortune at sea, but his low birth and dark features would never allow him to elevate himself above the rank of servant. Considering his beginnings, perhaps even servant was over-reaching himself, and should he part company with Captain Drummond, there was nothing to prevent himself being cast into the gutter once more. And Kasha? Even she were to lose her family and fortune, her good name and noble bearing would find her friends wherever she went. And yet he could not find it in himself to feel bitterness towards his companion, for she had no more chosen her birth than he had his, and here on the road, for just a little while longer, they could be as equals. They could be friends

 

Whitby was already a-bustle by the time they approached the outskirts of town along the bank of the Esk. Sailors and whalers went hither and thither about their business, fishwives loudly proclaiming their husbands' catch for sale, everyone forced to raise their voices over the din of the ship-yards. And so, among this industrious chaos, two ragged children slipped largely unnoticed across the bridge towards the harbour. Among the busy ships, the Scáthach stood alone in her silence, gangplank drawn up, flags at half-mast, seemingly not a soul on board. This presented a problem to Johnny, for his entire plan to that moment revolved around finding Captain Drummond, and that he would know what to do next. Noting his concern at the situation, Kasha enquired whether the crew might still be in their beds, but, unless some enchantment or malady had overcome them, this was rather less likely than them simply not being there. There were a number of places where they _might_ be, but Johnny was in no mood to go traipsing about half the inns in Whitby to discover them. "Ahoy there!", he called up to the deserted deck, but there was no response. He called up again, his own voice sounding strange to him, unaccustomedly deep and gruff with thirst and exhaustion. Perhaps they did not recognise him. "Ahoy there, you dogs! Put down a ladder, damn it! Do you not know your own crew-mate?"

This, at last seemed to garner some attention, and a figure approached crying "Who's making a racket down there, eh? Ain't you got no respect for the dea..." Stearman's round, whiskered face peered over the edge of the deck, and drew still in surprize, "...ead," he blinked owlishly, "Well bugger me. Johnny, lad?!"

Johnny graced him with a lopsided grin and a wave. Stearman laughed out loud and let forth a joyous oath, and leapt catlike down to the harbour-side. He had barely landed when he pulled Johnny into a crushing embrace. When this went on for a little longer than was comfortable, physically or otherwise, Johnny croaked out, "Randolf, love, I'm much relieved to see you too, but I cannot breath like this," and Stearman grudgingly released him. And so Johnny told Stearman of their journey, and made introduction to Kasha using her full title, and Stearman bowed low and called her Your Highborn, and Johnny rolled his eyes behind his colleague's back at the formality, making Kasha stifle a giggle. At last he asked, "So, where is everyone?"

"In the Bird and Babby," replied Stearman

"At this hour?"

"It's your wake."

"I have not yet been gone a day!" laughed Johnny, "Any excuse, that lot. Then I must to the Captain before he's in his cups, for he will know how best to reunite Kasha with her family. Mr Stearman, if you would be so good as to fetch the harbour-master, we shall away to... ah..." And here Johnny gave pause, for like any inn frequented by sailors, the Raven and Child was not what one would call salubrious, and not, perhaps, the most suitable venue for a young lady. He recounted the conversation to Kasha, and explained the predicament. Kasha's only enquiry to the nature of the inn was whether there would be breakfast there, and, on affirmation there would be, declared that she had survived a shipwreck, starvation, a march through rough terrain, and sleeping in a ruin under the stars, so she thought she could survive some sailors. Johnny could not help but smile; oh, but she was wasted on court.

 

It is well known that sailors are the most superstitious people in the world, and as such the sight of the ghost of their lost ship-mate on the morrow of his wake, pale and dressed all in tatters and rags, waving to them through the grubby window of the inn caused them a little fright, but not a great deal of surprize. But fear soon turned to delight as the 'ghost' rolled into the saloon bar, leaning heavily on the arm of a pretty girl, and greeted them with a cheerful "Well, lads, am I late to my own funeral then?", and they fell upon Johnny with affection and joy, voicing their relief in terms Johnny was thankful Kasha would not comprehend. To Kasha, the scene reminded her of nothing less than her father's hunting dogs, when one of their number was returned to the pack. Had the men sprouted wagging tails, she would have not been in the least alarmed. At last their high spirits subsided enough that Johnny could make introductions, and the crew subdued themselves to a more respectful tone on learning Kasha's identity. Paine, ever the amateur polyglot, attempted to make some speech in the little Russian he knew, but alas he had taught himself from books that did not fully explain the differences in pronunciation, and he was quite unintelligible; French was, therefore, settled upon as the common language. A waitress was called to bring tea and hot rolls for the young lady, and something stronger for young Johnny to put some colour back in his cheeks. And so, restored by food and warmth and the company of friends, Johnny and Kasha recounted their adventures.

 

This triumphant scene was not to last long, sadly, for no sooner had they finished their tale than there was a great commotion outside the inn, and into to the bar pushed a pack of the town militia, headed by the harbour-master, the grand-looking gentleman from the rescue boat, and a rueful-looking Stearman. Kasha jumped up with a cry of <<Papa!>>, and flew to the grand couple. At the same time, a ruddy-faced, straw-haired lad stood beside the harbour-master declared "That's him, sir, that's John Black! I saw him with the princess this morning. He's a blaggart, sir! He'll have had his way with her no mistake," and the harbour-master pointed at Johnny and said "Arrest him!" Now a great din of shouting broke out, with the crew leaping up to defend their boy, and Captain Drummond demanding evidence and proclaiming Johnny's good character, and the ruddy-faced lad and the harbour-master throwing accusations of him being a thief and a liar and worse, past sins mingling with present suspicions. A pair of impetuous militiamen broke from the throng, making to seize Johnny, lame and vulnerable, from his chair; Upton and Stearman defied them, refusing to see their friend so cruelly abused. Now Paine's booming voice joined the cacophony, a tone of forced calm as he tried in vain to placate his heated up crewmen before violence erupted.  Yet through all this, all Johnny could attend to was the restrained, tense argument that had broken out between Kasha and her father, though he could not understand a word. Her father was furious, that much was clear, barely restraining violent intent towards Johnny. Kasha pleaded, begged, eventually shouted, and for an awful moment Johnny saw her father raise his hand to her, but some sobbed word from his daughter stilled him. The Russian gentleman stood stock still for a long moment, hand raised, eyes closed, lips clenched in a thin line, and then he barked "Enough!"

 

With that, the riot stopped dead. No one moved, no one spoke, no one even dared to breath deeply. Then Kasha, who had been stood between her father and Johnny, meekly stepped aside, and the gentleman, grand, imposing, regal, strode over to stand before Johnny. Johnny attempted to scramble to his feet, but Kasha's father waved him down.

"Sit," he commanded, his voice a deep, heavily-accented rumble, and Johnny obeyed. Out of the corner of his eye, Johnny could see Paine with his hand on Drummond's shoulder, gently restraining him from intervening; he was on his own.

"You saved my daughter," continued Kasha's father, "for that I give you my thanks." He loomed over Johnny; he was a big man, easily as big as Paine, but with a great bushy beard, and long, dark, fur-trimmed greatcoat that made him seem even more ursine. There was no patience and no pity in his sharp, blue eyes, and aquiline nose. "Do you know who I am, boy?" he asked, his voice soft but loud as thunder in the tense silence of the bar.

"Yes, sir," whispered Johnny, his heart in his throat.

"And that is?"

"His High Wellborn Vladimir Petrov Boltunovsky, Prince of K--, Ambassador of court of Her Majesty Empress Catherine the Great to the court of His Majesty King George," Johnny swallowed hard, "sir."

"Then you understand, boy, that my thanks is reward enough?"

Johnny nodded dumbly.

The prince brought his face very close to Johnny's, and growled "If you ever, _ever_ attempt to contact my daughter, I shall have you hung. And if... if I ever am given the slightest suspicion that you touched her, I shall have you fed to my dogs. Do you understand that?"

Johnny could not answer. His tongue was frozen and he found that he was trying to escape, backwards, through the chair and table behind him. The prince did not seem to care for a reply, for as soon as he had finished his speech he swept himself up, and with a word took Kasha's arm and led her from the bar. Before she left, Kasha managed to twist in his grip, and waved over her shoulder to Johnny, mouthing <<Au revoir>>. And then they were gone. The militia, understanding that the crisis had passed, shuffled awkwardly out of the room after them. All Johnny could do was stare after them, numbly, dumbly, dazed and overwhelmed as it all sunk in. A hand gently stroking the back of his head brought him back to land.

"Leave her, Johnny, leave her," said Captain Drummond, sadly, and that was that.


	4. Chapter 4

_Early January, 1816_

Stood in the lobby of a fashionable house off Oxford-street, John Childermass checked his pocket watch for the third time since he had been waiting there. It had been some fourty-five minutes since his master had sent for him to prepare for his departure from the party. Glancing through a doorway on the level above, he could just about see Mr Norrell still in rapt conversation with the gentleman who had foolishly asked him about Sutton-Grove on his way out. It was, thought Childermass, bloody typical that Mr Norrell would discover his gregarious side at two o'clock in the morning. As he waited, he developed a strong sensation that he was being watched. This sensation was, on investigation, accurate; upon the half-landing of the great staircase that swept up the middle of the lobby, an elegantly dressed, mature lady was asking questions of a servant, and the pair of them were looking at him. The lady looked shocked, perhaps, or distressed, no doubt wondering how this vagabond had got into the house. He gave them an ironical smile and a short wave, but as looked away again it occurred to him that the lady seemed oddly familiar. He was quite sure he knew her proud features, her dark eyes, but where from? A long-buried memory, from a distant past, a previous life came bubbling up, painful in its abruptness, knocking the wind out of him... It could not be?

And then there was a hand on his arm, and a soft, wondering "Johnny?"

And he turned, afraid he might be hoping too much... "Kasha?"

"Oh my goodness, it is you!" she cried, and flinging propriety to the wind embraced him like a sister, and Childermass, good sense fleeing leaving him in his shock. At last they separated, and stood arm in arm, taking in each others familiar features made strange by time.

<<I thought I would never see you again,>> he said, instinctively reaching for his French.

"Nor I," she replied in English, her accent that of a perfect home-counties lady, "I scarcely believe it now, but I sure I would know my dashing pirate anywhere, even after all this time."

"Now madam, things may have got lost in translation, but I was never a..."

She squeezed his hand affectionately, "Oh shush, I was teasing. But oh, I could still never forget my dear Johnny... Although I understand you no longer go by that name?"

Childermass nodded, "After the unfortunate business with the harbour-master, I thought it best to... To distance myself from my former identity. Captain Drummond was kind enough to furnish me with letters of recommendation under a different name." He presented her with a short bow, "John Childermass, at your service, madam."

She laughed, "Well, I am very glad to make your acquaintance, Mr Childermass. You're not the only one with a new name, you know," she offered a handshake, "Mrs Cathy Trevelyan, Lady B--."

He took her hand with a smile, but a pang of bitterness erupted in his breast at that word _Mrs_. Not that he had ever had a chance, but it still rankled.

"And where is Mr Trevelyan?" he enquired lightly.

"Oh, Thomas will be about somewhere," replied Mrs Trevelyan, gesturing vaguely to the upper rooms, "No doubt bending someone's ear about workers' rights. He's very keen on workers rights, you know."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"So... he'll have no problem if you were take tea with me some time. I've told him all about you, you know." She paused, looking unsure of herself, "You will come and visit me, now, won't you? Now that we have found each other?"

Childermass looked away, "Madam," he said, trying not to let that bitter feeling show, "I would be honoured to visit you, of course, but... But for all your husband's egalitarian feelings I am a servant, madam, and one with a particular reputation. It would not be respectable. Are you quire certain you wish to risk drawing gossip and ill-will on your household?"

"Yes," she said, firmly, "yes I do. The gossips be damned, John, I owe you my life and there is not a day for the last twenty-seven years I have not missed you. My station in life is assured, and I do not care about yours. I still wish to be your friend."

Childermass was taken aback, but on consideration, he realise he should not be. She was still his brave and headstrong Kasha. "Then with pleasure, Cathy."

 

It was hard to know where to follow such an emotional speech, here in the lobby of a fashionable house at a party. "Your English has improved," he said, to break the awkward silence.

"Yours hasn't," she retorted archly, "I heard you are working for the Magician now,"

"Yes," he replied, "I joined his service not long after we met, in fa..."

But he was cut off by a cry from the landing above of "Childermaaaaass!"

Childermass rolled his eyes, "Speak of the devil," he sighed, "Figuratively," he added, seeing Mrs Trevelyan's look of concern. From upstairs, Mr Norrell called for him again. "I'm afraid, madam, this is where I must take my leave," he said, taking her hand one last time, "It has been a delight to see you again."

He turned to leave, but she did not release his hand, "John," she said, "promise me you will visit?"

"I promise, Cathy," he smiled, "you have my word."

 

But as Fate would have it, it would be some years before Mr Childermass could fulfil that promise.


End file.
